In this way he passed through a few doleful weeks, suffering the greatest pain of body and of mind without sharing in the pity of any human being, but was made the _sport_ of those who should have treated him with tenderness and humanity. As he moved through the yard, he appeared like a walking skeleton, a living death; and yet he could not get the smallest degree of the attention due to a sick man, for the voice of the doctor was against him. But the cup of his calamity was beginning to run over; nature was sinking under the mighty load of his afflictions; and aware of his approaching dissolution, he prepared to meet it, and left directions with some of his fellow prisoners to be sent to his son, where he wished to be buried. Thus composed, he waited but a few days, and death released him from earthly suffering. It was on Sunday evening that he died. He went out to the cook-room, with the other prisoners, to supper, trembling and reeling through the yard like a drunken shadow; and when he returned into the prison after supper, scarcely had the last door been bolted when the cry was heard from his cell--"Burnham is dead!" At this moment the doctor was passing the prison, and hearing the cry, he came in. As he entered the hall, Burnham was brought out of his cell, and laid on the floor before him.--"Is he dead?" said this unworthy son of Galen, "I said yesterday that he was not sick, but it is evident he was." Yes, it is evident he was sick, but doctor, this is not the last of it. The man is _dead_, and the guilt of his death lies on your soul, and if you do not repent of this great wickedness, you will, in your turn, call for mercy, and find despair. He was laid out in the hospital, where he was kept two days, till his friends came and took his body, and conveyed it to Woodstock for interment. During this time, the blood was almost continually running out of his mouth and nostrils, and a more dreadful picture of death was never seen. On this case I have but few remarks to make, and in these, perhaps, I have been anticipated by the feeling reader. One fact is obvious to every one who has read this account with attention--and this is, that Burnham was hastened to the grave, by the injustice and cruelty of the doctor and keepers. Had he been treated according to the spirit and letter of the laws, he might have been living now. The laws of humanity should lead us to forget the crimes of a sick man in tender and sympathetic care and solicitude for his recovery; and he who can calmly hand over a fellow-being to the tormentors, when he knows that he needs that relief which it is his professed and sworn duty to impart, cannot be far from finished depravity. The truth of this remark is obvious, and while I have such a sense of Burnham's guilt, that I have scarcely a heart to pity him, I cannot help condemning, in the bitterest terms, that infernal process by which he was deliberately hastened to the grave.